Heart of Gold
by messalina77
Summary: "When love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust. Without trust, there can be no love."
1. Roxanne

**Disclaimer: I own zero, cero, nihil, nada, nothin' of Charlaine Harris'. I wrote this about two years ago and finally decided it was time to publish this b. The idea of instant gratification, especially the line, "fresh and hot, like a pizza," is directly from Gen Kill. I really hope you like it, because I'd like to keep writing it.**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, I was more than a little nervous about this story. They also brought to my notice that for some reason the POVs I added initially aren't showing up, which is def confusing...darn horizontal rulers...I tip my hat to everyone who muddled through it haha, kudos...  
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**_Sookie POV_  
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As I entered the Ritz-Carlton in New York City, I ignored the gorgeous surroundings, the lavish furnishings, the expensive décor, and even the elegant individuals who condescended to place their feet on the floor of the lobby as they strolled towards their destinations. I had seen it all many times before and anyway, I was here to work.

My black leather and silver-spiked platform pumps clicked gently but firmly against the glossy floors, and I noticed several women raise an eyebrow at the red soles. _That's right bitches_, I smirked. Brand-spanking-new Louboutin heels, worth almost thirteen grand and figuratively worth a whole lot more. They were impossible to find right now unless you had connections. And I did.

However, it wasn't just the shoes that were causing the raised eyebrows. My black crocodile Birkin bag, which cost more than what some two-income families made in a year, hung carelessly from the crook of my elbow. My platinum Cartier watch sparkled, as did my diamond Tiffany bracelet on the opposite wrist, which was peeking out from under my cranberry Dolce&Gabbana trench coat. And of course the matching earrings glittered delicately on either side of my perfectly made-up face. My five hundred dollar highlights shone in blond tresses that had been perfectly arranged to cascade a few inches past my shoulders.

"Chic" was an understatement.

When the men's heads turned, as they inevitably did, they didn't notice the details, only the confidence and sophistication and beauty and youth of the entire package. The details were for the women; those pathetic, miserable, insecure, jealous creatures who wanted to find an external flaw to make themselves feel better but couldn't. On the outside, I was perfection.

I dressed for them because if they knew what I did for a living, none of it would matter. My closet full of hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of clothing and accessories and jewels wouldn't matter.

Because I was an escort. A prostitute. A hooker.

No matter how expensive my outfit was, or how well-groomed I was, or how well I carried myself; I was undeniably cheap.

But since they didn't know my secret, I could pretend to be wealthy and lucky and happy. And I'd be damned if anything about me suggested otherwise.

**_Eric POV_**

I checked my watch for about the fifth time in the last half hour. I wasn't nervous about hiring an escort, though. As American Southerners say, "This ain't my first rodeo." It was more that I still had a shitload of paperwork left to do before I flew to L.A. tomorrow morning.

I needed to relieve some stress and quickly. Although it would have been ridiculously easy to pick up some woman in the bar area, (my best time was forty-three seconds), they always wanted to stay afterwards. I hate to be blunt or cruel...(well, who am I kidding, I love it so much that I've made it into a career, and a quite successful one at that)...but they're never worth the hassle that I inevitably encounter as I kick them out.

Which is why I have more recently begun to rely on the alternative: hiring one. It's pretty brilliant, actually. You call, they arrive right on your doorstep, fresh and hot. Like a pizza. A pizza without any kind of emotional baggage. My favorite kind.

Finally, at the forty-five minute mark, there was a sharp rap on the door. I briefly checked my reflection, but at 6'4 with blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a tight, lean physique, I rarely look anything less than handsome. Arrogant, confident; tomayto, tomahto. I know the truth and I don't lie to myself or anyone else. Life is too short and mine especially is too important to be filled with bullshit.

I opened the door and almost started at the vision in front of me. She was gorgeous. Her cool hazel eyes studied me with a good humor and intelligence, and I was pleasantly surprised. I knew this particular company was expensive but it came highly recommended by an associate. It seemed like I might actually get my money's worth, a rarity in today's world.

"Mr. Northman, I presume?" she said confidently.

I moved to the side and gestured for her to enter. "Please call me Eric."

She smiled and moved gracefully into the room. Her expensive perfume gently wafted past my nose and I braced myself from leaning in closer to inhale. _Creeper_, I scolded myself disgustedly. This was a business arrangement, nothing more or less, and I couldn't afford to get attached, no matter how attractively the present had been wrapped. I also couldn't believe that I was even having to remind myself of this.

"Thanks for not making the obvious, 'You'll be screaming it later,' comment," she remarked blithely. "You'd be amazed how many clients think that's original."

Despite my reservations, I laughed. She smiled at me a little crookedly, but with a real, genuine expression, and I unwillingly warmed a little inside.

After a pause, she shook her head. "I apologize, I just realized I didn't introduce myself. That was very rude. I'm Susannah."

I frowned slightly, even as I subconsciously registered the pleasing hint of a sexy, Southern drawl. "Susannah? Really?"

Her smile disappeared and her slightly professional manner returned. "Yes, is there a problem with that? I'm not sure if you've used our company's services before, but it is not expected that we will be whoever you want us to be. We will, however, do whatever you want us to do."

I was torn between being impressed by her candid attitude and being pissed off as hell by this demonstration of independent thought. It had been a long time since I had felt challenged by a woman. Especially by one who was in my employ, as I considered her to be at the moment.

I replied indifferently, "No problem. I assumed that you might have some kind of nickname. 'Susannah' is so old-fashioned, but I suppose it fits considering that you're a member of the world's oldest profession."

_Shit, that was pretty low._ In any case, I had expected the typical female response, either to be slapped or kicked or have her walk out indignantly or something of the like...but instead she backed down.

For some reason, it unnerved me that this otherwise spirited woman would let my asshole comments bother her. Logically, I knew that men paid her for sex, and this hadn't bothered me in the slightest about any of the other women, but Susannah seemed...I don't know, too good for this. I was perceptive when it came to a person's intentions and character, (it was practically a prerequisite of my job), and I sensed potential and determination and purpose in the woman standing before me.

There was an awkward pause. I waited it out, trying to appear nonplussed even as I secretly and eagerly anticipated her response.

Her posture slumped almost imperceptibly as she responded wryly, "If it makes you more comfortable, please call me...Sookie." She hesitated a moment, as if she was unsure of it. As if it had been sitting on a shelf, dusty and unused for a long time.

"Sookie..." I said with a low voice, trying it out. "...Sookie...Yes, I like it."

"Gee, Eric, I'm so glad," she snarked tartly, but a slight flush had bloomed on her cheeks. "Now that that's settled, we should discuss the terms or our agreement. My hourly rate is seventy-five hundred and includes everything except for anal sex, which is another five thousand per each occurrence. If there's anything you desire in particular, please don't hesitate to tell me. I'm here to please you, and it _is_ important to me that you enjoy yourself."

As she spoke, she set her purse on the nearby glass tabletop and removed her coat, draping it over a chair. She was wearing a simple black scoop-neck knit sweater and a black pencil skirt, which flattered her curvy yet slim silhouette.

I couldn't wait to rip them off of her.

Instead, I moved to the other side of the room and busied myself making a drink. Although I should have been in a rush, suddenly taking things more slowly seemed much more appealing.

"Would you like anything, Sookie?" I asked as I carefully poured a single-malt Scotch.

"Yes, whiskey on the rocks, please," she answered softly.

I made the drink and moved to hand it to her. She thanked me before taking a small sip.

"No cocktail?" I teased lightly.

And the crooked grin was back. "You can take the girl out of the South, but..." her voice trailed off as my mind supplied, _You can't take the South out of the girl_.

"Oh, really? Whereabouts? I've traveled through there on business quite a few times; it's amazing how metropolitan some of the cities are, like Atlanta and Dallas," I said, realizing too late how snobby I sounded.

"Just a backwater town in Louisiana. I haven't been back since I graduated from high school," she shrugged, apparently a little embarrassed to reveal so much personal information. "How about yourself?"

"Oh, I'm from all over. My mother is Swedish and I was born there, but my father was American. I'm an army brat," I said distastefully. The term had always carried negative connotations for me, and there were some pretty awful incidents in my childhood that I'd prefer not to think of in the present company.

"You didn't enjoy moving so often, I take it? That's ironic; I would have given anything to have traveled or left the state even once as I was growing up," she replied sociably, taking another sip of her drink.

"Yeah, well, my father was a bit of a bastard," I blurted out. What The Fuck. This wasn't some goddamn therapy session; even if it had been, I still wouldn't have talked about him. There was something about this girl that made me feel vulnerable.

I seriously considered paying her for the hour and asking her to leave now.

Especially after seeing that her face had softened in response to my outburst.

"That's terrible, Eric."

I committed one of the cardinal sins of drinking and downed the rest of my single-malt, which was a considerable amount, in one gulp.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," I said gruffly. She set her drink down and approached me. I felt her reach past me and I stiffened, thinking she was trying to hug me. (How messed up was that? Hiring a beautiful escort and then instinctively being afraid to let her touch me...it was _very_ unlike me, unless you count the 'not wanting to be close to anyone' part.)

Instead, she adjusted the volume on the radio behind me. The nostalgic melody of Etta James' "At Last" flowed forth as she stood up on her toes (as high as her heels would allow) and whispered into my ear, "Let's dance."

I didn't look at her but reluctantly permitted her to place my hand in hers. Her left hand slid up my chest and rested below my shoulder. My right arm wrapped loosely around her back, then moved down to tighten around her waist as we swayed slowly back and forth.

God, she was so warm and smelled so good.

No. No. No. This had to stop.

I finally regained control of myself and realized that I need to fuck her and get back to work.

I turned off the music and pulled back a little and leaned down to kiss her. She gently turned her head so that my kiss landed on her cheek. My hand moved from holding hers to gripping her chin and I tried again to kiss her on the other side, thinking that maybe she had misunderstood my first attempt. This time she jerked her head away and my kiss landed on her neck. I would have been angry but she had the most glorious neck...it was firm and tender and I was beginning to wonder if I was only just now developing a neck fetish that had somehow gone undetected for the previous thirty-two years of my life.

She moaned and I felt myself harden.

I murmured against that supple neck, "Why not the lips, Sookie?"

She said breathlessly, "Because I might fall in love with you, of course."

I pulled away instantly and was about to stutter a lame reply when I noticed her cheeky smile. "Oh, ha freaking ha," I said sarcastically, although a sense of panic was lingering.

"Eric, doll, stop pouting," she demanded as she deftly flicked open the buttons of my shirt. I gasped a little as she ran her nails down the middle of my bare chest before reaching up and sliding my shirt off my shoulders. "You can dish it out, but you sure can't take it," she observed astutely.

My gaze darkened and I spun her around to grind my erection into her backside. I pulled her sweater up and off of her in one smooth movement and my large hands roamed her soft tan skin. My left hand gripped underneath her hair and pulled her head to that side as I feasted on the right side of her neck. She rubbed against me like a cat in heat, and after flicking open her bra and throwing it to the side, my left hand reached around to tease her nipples. She continued to writhe against my touch. My right hand slid up her leg and delved past her thong. She was already wet, and the heat radiating from her was beyond intense. I wanted so badly to just bury myself inside of her at that moment, but Sookie was like the Scotch that I had only just consumed. She needed to be sipped and savored, not finished in one quick go.

As I slid one long finger inside of her, I stopped kissing her neck. She whined a little in protest, until I leaned down again.

"Sookie, fuck, you're so wet and tight...can you feel that? Can you feel my finger inside of you? Stretching you for my big cock?" I whispered urgently. She nodded erratically and whimpered, "Mmmm, more, please...Eric, please..."

I obliged by adding another finger, and then another. Her head had fallen back against my chest, her eyes were closed, and her breathing grew heavier and more labored. My fingers increased their pace and my thumb flicked across her clit before rubbing quick but deep circles against it.

After a few moments, she cried out and clutched me tighter as she found her release. Her eyes slowly opened and she tilted her head back to look at me upside down before smiling slowly.

I kissed her forehead, respecting the No Lips Rule. She twisted around and pushed me back until my knees hit the bed and I sat back on it. She unzipped her skirt and shimmied out of it before kicking off her shoes. The only thing she was wearing was a delicate beige thong. With her long blonde tresses and large breasts, she seemed like a reincarnation of Aphrodite herself.

Most of my thoughts disappeared when she pounced on me. And I do mean 'pounced.' She was standing and then suddenly she was straddling me as I lay back on the bed. I eagerly ripped off the thong, anticipating what might happen next.

She slid onto me like the glass slipper of Cinderella's. Even now, I can recall how tight, and wet, and hot she was. Over and over again, she rose and fell, and I was trapped in the highest level of purgatory. God, how I wanted to climax, but the friction between us was unforgettable, and I didn't want it to end.

She rode me into sweet oblivious oblivion, and for the first time in a long time, I forgot to aim for mutual satisfaction. I completely and totally bought into it. I came long and hard, panting into her embrace, wrapping my arms around her, crushing her breasts against me, shoving myself as far as possible inside of her. I remember her gasps, and how I summoned the strength to move my hand towards her clit, rubbing frantically until I felt her shuddering violently against me. Our slick, sweaty bodies rubbed against each other until she finally collapsed on me.

For a moment, the room was filled with the sounds of our heady breaths and, against my will, I discovered that I was gently stroking her back with my thumbs in slow, circular patterns. Fortunately, at that moment she seemed to sense the intimacy of my actions and rolled off of my torso.

"My policy is to accept half of the payment now, and for you to bill my employers for the other half," Sookie stated robotically as she reached for her clothes.

I hesitated. "Susannah…"

However, I was instantly silenced by the cool, calculated gaze that she sent my way as she dressed.

I cleared my throat, searching quickly for a neutral territory.

"I may want to hire you again. Should I do that through the company?"

She softened, although very slightly, and nodded shortly. I murmured that the money was in the wallet by the dresser and she moved towards it, then counted it efficiently and quickly before placing it in her purse. She turned back to me, almost as an afterthought. Her eyes betrayed nothing.

"Goodbye, Eric Northman."

As soon as she had closed the door behind her, my head fell back against the pillow and I was consumed by thoughts of the lovely, guarded, mysterious Susannah.

Her golden tan, her golden hair, her golden…ness.

Even when I remembered the pile of work I had to complete before catching my next plane, I was distracted by the idea of her.

I couldn't wait to come back to New York. Maybe I could figure out something easier. Like a way to not leave.

**_Sookie POV_**

As soon as I slid into the taxi cab, a huge sob escaped my lips. The driver was perceptive enough not to enquire about my emotional behavior.

When I arrived home, despite the normally wonderful distraction of my two roommates, I couldn't think of anything but Eric. He was tall and gorgeous, and rich, and the sex was amazing, true…but the way he looked at me…it was worth kingdoms and fealties. I'd never witnessed that look of adoration that had been in his eyes; it was beyond lust, it was worship.

And him. I wanted him. He was so broken and he barely seemed to recognize it. I wanted to fix him, to heal him. I wondered if he had sensed how much I had struggled to escape from his hotel room without surrendering to him completely.

God, I had to see him again.

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><p>P.S. Um, yes, Sookie's a hooka (I decided to take Lafayette's addresses literally). I know this may be a moral no-no for most people (and rightly so, haha), but consider that she wasn't always this way. And neither was Eric. I'm interested in exploring their background and what drove them down these roads…and lemons, bc you can't have summer without lemonade. :D


	2. Whatever You Like

**Disclaimer: I'm oh-ficially disclaimin' any ownership of these here characters. (And thanks ya'll, to errbody who reviewed :D)  
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**A/N: Dark and choppy waters ahead. Beware. Swim at your own risk.**

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><p><em><strong>Sookie POV<strong>_

When I was eight, my parents were killed in a car accident and I went to live with my grandparents. Gramps passed away in his sleep almost a year later. And then it was just Gran and I, the last of the Stackhouses. We were poor, undeniable belonging to the financially lower-class, but so was most of the town of Bon Temps, and consequently our poverty was never something I really noticed.

I went to bed every night with a full stomach and a happy heart. Although I had already learned twice at a young age that nothing was permanent, as I grew into adolescence, time had somehow lulled me into a mistaken sense of security.

Gran was a rock, steady and unchanging as the flow of everyday life rushed past her. What I didn't realize, what we couldn't have known, was that her unwavering strength was gradually wearing her down.

Her first heart attack almost killed her and required a quadruple bypass to clear her main arteries. After that she had a series of small strokes that left her weak and nearly debilitated. We had nothing but basic medical insurance, and the hospital bills were insurmountable. But they had to be paid, as did the mortgage, and the utilities…

So I started waitressing at the local watering hole, but I quickly realized it wasn't anywhere near enough money to cover our expenses. Without Gran's knowledge, I convinced my friend Tara's older sister Mindy to put in a good word for me as a cocktail waitress at the seedy strip club located just outside of the town limits. The owner, Sam, knew my age but he also knew my situation and was willing to look the other way as I worked there. I wasn't only attractive but also younger and cleaner in appearance than the other women, so I made a healthy profit each week.

I could have made better money stripping. Despite being a senior in high school, I was eighteen and legally permitted to remove my clothes for cash. Ironically, I could NOT legally serve alcohol, so it was for less money and at a greater risk that I attempted to retain a semblance of respectability.

Naturally, working every evening left me precious little time for academics and a social life. I did my best to balance schoolwork and workwork, but earning cash had to be the priority.

On the night of my high school prom, when everyone else my age was luxuriating in the relative innocence of their youth and excited about their plans for the future and indulging in the nostalgia of their teen years, I was reluctantly maneuvering my way around inebriated animals only to provide them with items that would encourage their intoxication.

Of course, you'd have never sensed my utter disgust. My smile and flirtatious attitude were always present; I knew exactly where and how my bread was so distastefully buttered, and anyway, I could and would cry as much as I needed to on the drive home. But for now, I was upbeat and casually flattering of my best customers, striking a delicate balance between playful rapport and firm discouragement of physical advances. It was, to put it simply, exhausting.

I never even noticed the quiet man sitting in the corner table, outside of my section. No one could remember seeing him later, after everything had happened, and it was determined that he was just a stranger passing through.

Whoever he was, he ruined my life forever and irrevocably on that night when he raped me.

I had left the club through the back employee entrance after checking out with Sam. Most of the other girls had already left, but I stayed behind to close. I was normally fastidious about leaving with someone else, but on this evening I was exhausted and bitter and uncharacteristically throwing myself a pity-party in lieu of prom, and my feelings made me careless.

I was almost to my old Honda when he came up behind me and I felt the barrel of a gun at my back. He murmured in a deceptively soothing voice that if I wanted to live, I wouldn't make a noise as we walked into the woods beyond the club. Every instinct told me to scream and flee, and he seemed to sense this. The next thing I saw were bright red stars behind my eyes as he knocked me out.

When I awoke, the pain was the only thing that let me know I was alive. And truly, I wanted to be dead. I had only been lying there in the parking lot for about half an hour or so, they told me later, but I swear that it was an eternity before Sam found me, covered in dirt and blood and semen, lying motionless and looking up at the night sky.

At the hospital, I numbly acquiesced to each command given to me by nurses and doctors, but I was unable to speak. If I didn't think, it didn't hurt. The shock wasn't so bad; it was the idea of feeling again that I yearned to suppress. After examining my head injury, they used a rape kit to collect evidence. Once they had completed my physical exam, a detective was allowed to interview me.

The detective was very thorough and gentle with his questioning, but I could offer nothing useful. He did not seem concerned about where I had been or why I was there when the attacked happened, only about my attacker's identity. I experienced my first emotion, oddly one of relief that he wasn't going to blame me for what had happened.

And finally, being forced to relive the incident, feelings of helplessness, anger, and inexplicably, guilt rushed through me in a tidal wave of emotion. I turned quickly and threw up into the bedpan beside me.

Sam was the only person who knew about it, but we never spoke of it. The customers at the club that night were questioned but only given vague details about The Incident. I didn't want to pursue it, anyway. I felt illogically undeserving of justice, and moreover, I was terrified that my grandmother might find out and that the shock would literally kill her. Once the police had eliminated the strip clubs' regulars as suspects, it seemed very likely to me that my attacker was a wanderer and was long gone without any intention of returning.

Although I was supposed to go to therapy or a counselor afterwards, instead I dove straight back into life. It would have been too expensive to pause or to look back. I covered my bruises as best as possible, returned to work after a day off, and never mentioned anything about it to Gran.

Meanwhile, her body had been inflicting relentless suffering and pain on her, and mercifully she passed away after living just long enough to see me with my high school diploma. The day after she was buried, I officially quit my job at the strip club, placed the house on the market, and left town. All of the debts were settled over time, and I never saw Bon Temps or any of its citizens again.

New York City was my ultimate destination. It was the only place large enough for a rebirth, for me to rise from the ashes. I had successfully managed to block The Incident from my consciousness, but each night without fail, I had a nightmare in which I felt the barrel at my back, I heard his low voice, and I screamed.

When I arrived in the Big Apple, I took whatever jobs I could find. I stayed in a tiny apartment with two roommates and lived very frugally for the first few months before the house in Bon Temps was sold. One of my roomies, Amelia, became a very good friend. The only thing we had in common was our Southern roots, but Amelia had come from a privileged life to which she could always return if she wasn't able to succeed in the city. I had never spoken of the attack to her or anyone, but on the rare occasions I was unable to stifle the scream from my nightmares, she was always a supportive shoulder while still being respectful of my privacy.

It wasn't until I met Claudine at a gallery opening that I dared to consider real ambitions for myself. She seemed to tower over everyone, a glowing, glossy six-foot tall glamazon in fabulous stilettos and an expensive designer dress with an infectious, tinkling laugh. I was working for a catering company and serving drinks at the party when I noticed her. Although the room was filled with successful gorgeous people, Claudine had a certain je ne sais quoi that couldn't be bought or manufactured, not that it had stopped many of her envious partygoers from trying to emulate it. I tried not to stare, but after an hour or so of being unable to ignore her, she happened to catch my eye. Far from being annoyed that I had presumed to watch her instead of continuing to blandly facilitate the event, she studied me carefully for a moment and smiled. I remember wondering if she was a lesbian, (which, after growing up in Bon Temps was still a relatively new idea to me), but it seemed at the time more like an assessment than a flirtatious glance.

"_Danke_ _schön_, Christoph, everything was absolutely superb," Claudine acknowledged the caterer graciously as she moved past him towards me.

I continued to pack up as she spoke.

"May I help you with something, darling?"

This caused me to stop and falter slightly. Instinctively, I narrowed my gaze distrustfully and stepped back from my bag.

"Oh my, my. Someone's a nervous Nellie," she murmured softly. I stubbornly met her eyes and she looked back unflinchingly.

"I'm Claudine, but it seems you already knew that. I would ask what's kept you so captivated by me, but I can't pretend to be unaware of my charms." She smiled gently and I relaxed a smidge.

"How…" my voice cracked so I cleared my throat awkwardly. "May I ask what you do here in the city?"

Her smile broadened and she asked for my name. She tried it once or twice, alternating the pronunciation slightly until she was comfortable with it.

"Well Sookie, darling, I own a very lucrative and successful business venture." She raised one eyebrow and leaned towards me conspiratorially as she continued in a staged whisper.

"An escort service."

Well. Huh. Was she serious?

She laughed lightly at my ill-concealed reaction. "Yes, it took a me a little while to become accustomed to it as well, but frankly, I couldn't imagine doing anything else. My company operates efficiently and safely, and we provide valuable service to some very powerful clients. Men _and_ women." She waggled her eyebrows a little, and I laughed, caught off-guard by the surprisingly coarse gesture coming from such a polished woman.

She handed me a card. "I'd like for you to consider applying to work for us. And before you rush to the conclusion that you're being insulted, think it over. Contact me when you're ready to make some real money." I blushed when I took into account what I was wearing, a stained, sweaty, cheap white-collared shirt and faded black pants.

I knew there was nothing wrong with hard work and getting my hands dirty but suddenly, standing next to well-groomed Claudine, I felt so tired. I was sick of it, struggling to survive with my dignity intact, struggling to survive period. It had cost me so much already and no matter how hard I worked, it seemed I was always found wanting. I deserved more.

After wordlessly accepting Claudine's card, I watched her turn and glide away.

It might have been the unlikeliest thing in the world, that a rape victim would voluntarily succumb to lifestyle requiring her to trade her body for money. But my twisted logic was that if I treated sex as a commodity, it could be something common and ordinary. I could pretend that I hadn't lost anything important during The Incident.

I could take control, for once.

I came to the realization that ultimately, it's not about right, it's not about wrong.

It's about power.

And now, finally, I had the power.

It took about three months for Claudine to vet me via background check and for me to finish training. We were prepared for any situation, social or sexual, and were also required to undergo multiple physical exams and to undergo rigorous self-defense courses before we could officially begin working. She had been absolutely truthful in describing her company as safe and efficient.

Slowly, I began accruing regular clients. After a few months, I was invited out regularly as a social escort to various functions around NYC. The sexual encounters were actually a minimal part of work; in six months, I had amazingly only had the same number of intimate partners. Most of the older men especially were only looking for eye candy to flash at an event, and some clients were so narcissistic that I doubted anything could satisfy them sexually except watching themselves, alone, in a mirror.

With Claudine's help, I seemed to have discovered a natural affinity for the job; I was charming, vivacious, tactful and, after a company-initiated make-over, highly attractive and polished. My wardrobe grew and so did my savings account. Finally I had decided to move to a larger apartment with a fellow escort. Although I missed seeing Amelia everyday, she understood why I needed to leave, part of which was because she had not been entirely supportive of my new career. She had a right to object to my profession, but that judgment had definitely driven a wedge between us. Having never truly been without, and not knowing the entirety of my history, she couldn't comprehend what had driven me to…well, to prostitution. So we parted uneasily but without animosity.

As soon as I arrived at the new apartment, I stopped to marvel at its size and richly furnished rooms. It was 2 bedroom/1 bathroom condo on the Upper East Side, and it seemed practically like a mansion to me. Pam greeted me with an excited smile, her pale blue eyes flashing.

"Miss Sooh-kay, I doo deh-clahh, if this just ain't the fanciest thang I've evah seeeeeyeen…" she fawned over me with a poorly exaggerated Southern accent. Pam was from the Mid-West and had no discernable accent, and there was something about mine that just drove her to hilarious distraction. At first I thought she was catty, but as we became closer, I realized that she mocked everything and everyone, with the exceptions of clients, naturally. Her wit and extroverted personality had proven to be the catalyst to her success in the business, and I learned through experience that it was _much_ better to have her on your side than against you.

Settled in my new place with all of my new things, with my new future and so many possibilities ahead of me, I thought I should feel content. To some extent, I was. But it still wasn't enough. There was a hole in the world; stuff and things and money couldn't fill it, and to be honest, I couldn't conceive that there was anything that could make me complete again.

But I'd rather be damaged goods living in luxury than damaged goods living in poverty.

It wasn't until I met Eric that I began to doubt.

**Coming up: Eric's backstory. Or backside. When he meets up with Sookie again. Not really sure, just waiting for the creative juices to flooooooooooow :)**


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